The Congregation
by 4lackofabettername
Summary: Modern AU. Prim is forcibly taken to a community home attached to a Christian church. Katniss enlists Gale, Peeta and five prisoners from the local jail to help rescue her, and together they discover a cult devoted to horrific ideology. Now the six must save Prim and put a stop to the cult...before it initiates a sinister, atrocious operation.


_A/N: __ This is rather dark. It's theme is mainly abuse in the name of religion and may offend some religious readers. This story is rated MA and will contain strong language, sexual assault, brutal violence, child abuse, language which may offend, drug and alcohol use and scenes of torture. You have been warned, so please don't complain if you get offended/grossed out._

_All OC characters belong to me, and all Hunger Games characters belong to Suzanne Collins._

The Congregation

July 11, 2014

Even in the summer, Northern Ontario sits at a mild temperature.

While in the southern part of the province it may be scorching one day, there will still be a cool breeze in the air in the North, around Lake Superior, the largest, deepest and yes, coldest of the Great Lakes.

Today was one of those days.

Tobin Frost sat in a prisoner transport bus, feeling goosebumps on his skin as his orange prison jumpsuit-short sleeved, conveniently-barely kept him warm. It was a sunny day, but even the ever-bright star couldn't heat up the Northern part of Canada's largest province. All the windows were down, courtesy of the driver, and as he had a window seat the breeze was blowing right in his face as the bus sped down the lonely, rocky road. His hair, black and spikey, was blown back by the wind as his slightly-scowled face and dark blue eyes surveyed the nowhere landscape surrounding them.

They had left the city of Thunder Bay around two hours ago and had simply headed north. Apparently there was a small town a couple hundred miles away that had a large work camp/prison, one reserved for only the lowest, most dangerous criminals in society. The camp would have them engage in physical labour in order to learn their lesson.

Tobin had killed two people. Two men, armed with rifles, had burst into his home looking for his money. Tobin had shot one with a pistol-bought for defense-and when it had been knocked away from him, he stabbed the other in the eye with a kitchen knife.

When he called the police, however, they took him for questioning. As he had already been arrested once in his teenage years (breaking and entering as part of a dare) they kept him in a holding cell. Was it even legal to keep a man in a cell if he hasn't been read his rights or shit like that?

He had a trial. And he was found guilty. Two counts of first-degree murder.

For defending his home.

_At least those two fuckers are dead. At least they didn't get off scot-free. _He often thought to relieve his frustration at being mistakenly imprisoned.

"A bit chilly, Frost?"

He turned to look at the voice from behind him. A man with a blonde buzzcut and an assortment of scars on his face was smiling at him smugly.

"Yes Powell. How are you NOT cold?"

"Well, as I'm from Thunder Bay, not from Florida like yourself, I'm used to cold temperatures." Powell's smug smile remained on his face.

Craig Powell had been arrested for drug possession, illegal possession of a firearm and resisting arrest. He had also (once in prison) admitting to killing four people over a kilo of cocaine. As he was making off with the drugs in a truck, he was spotted and chased by police, he drove away from them, firing at them with a Colt .45 as he went. When they caught up to him, they miraculously didn't ask him _where_ he had aquired the drugs, so he escaped murder charges. It helped the warehouse he got the drugs at was in the middle of nowhere.

"Good for you." Tobin said bitterly, shivering.

Powell laughed, a gruff barking laugh. "Pussy."

Tobin wasn't in the mood to retort, so he, Powell and the 25 other prisoners in the bus sat quiet for a moment.

Then Powell grinned and leaned his head into the aisle.

"Hey driver!" He said, trying to annoy the bus driver. He stood up. "Look at me! I'm out of my seat!"

The driver was stone, never moving.

"Aren't you gonna _threaten me_? With that _biiiiiiig gun of yours?_" Some of the other prisoners chuckled at this.

"You can do that all you want, but he's never going to move." came a voice with a heavy Spanish accent from the seat across the aisle from him.

Powell's smile dropped as he looked at the source. "Excuse me for trying to have some fun, Hernandez."

Pedro Hernandez, a native of Mexico, didn't move from his position laying his head on the window, eyes closed like he was trying to sleep. He had short black hair with a goatee to match. He was only 30, but looking him in his eyes, you would think he already had the knowledge and experience of someone twice his age.

"He's done this before. He's learned to be patient."

"Of course," said a skinhead a few rows behind Hernandez with a swastika tattooed on his bald scalp, "In your shithole country the cops don't need much persuasion to kill someone, do they?"

Hernandez smiled and chuckled a bit. "None at all."

"Hey! Watch your mouth, asshole." came another Spanish-accented voice from the back of the bus, directed at the skinhead.

The skinhead turned around. "Fucking make me, you fucking dirty gardener!"

Yet another Spanish voice, across from the racist man, spoke. "All the charm of a compost heap but not nearly the intelligence."

This made several prisoners laugh, including Pedro, Powell and Tobin.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST CALL ME, YOU DIRTY MEXICAN?!" the skinhead screamed, rising from his seat.

The man, with dark skin, long brown hair and a goatee, looked at him. "I'm from Honduras. And I didn't call you anything, at least not a term. I just remarked how you are classless, ignorant and rather stupid."

The skinhead lunged, fist ready to break the man's jaw, until his target jumped up and rammed his own fist into his throat. The racist fell back into his seat, gasping for air and clutching his throat like it had just been cut.

"HEY! SETTLE THE FUCK DOWN BACK THERE!" The driver yelled.

But it was too late. Another bald man, presumeably in alliance with the first, jumped up and swung at the Honduran man, who was named George Juarez. Juarez dodged and gave the man a punch to the face, which knocked him into two more inmates. In turn, those men jumped up and lunged forward, while people in front of Juarez got up to counter them.

Soon the whole bus was engaged in battle. Tobin knocked away a bearded inmate with his elbow while kicking an at-least-300-pound one, who looked like Mike Tyson without the face tattoo, in the chest. Pedro dodged a kick from the first skinhead and sent him tumbling over with a punch in the nose. Powell took a punch to chest but quickly recovered, giving the sender a kick to the face and sending him to the floor.

The driver whipped around. "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING-"

He was met with a punch square in the nose by a Texan inmate with a dark goatee and perfectly straight brown hair. The driver slumped back onto the steering wheel, turning it and sending the bus sideways, causing everyone to stumble to the left.

The, Tobin happened to look outside the window.

A deep, rocky ravine.

The bus lurched over the edge.

XxXxXxXxXx

Tobin was out for five seconds.

He remembered the bus falling...flipping, so they were sent hitting the roof...turning cabin first...and slamming into the bottom of the ravine.

A ferocious crashing and crunching sound. The steering column was sent into the driver's seat, cutting the driver in two and killing him immediately. Everyone fell forward, some falling into the explosion of broken glass from the windshield. Tobin himself fell into that explosion of glass, falling through and hitting his head onto the rocky bottom of the ditch as he blacked out.

He came to. The bus was on it's back, having turned over after hitting the ground. Glass shards were everywhere. He looked around, and at least 8 prisoners were dead, judging by their wounds. Broken necks or spines, lacerations near arteries...whichever one of those options.

He picked himself up, inspecting his injuries. Many cuts, but none life threatening. Judging by the pounding hurt in his head, he probably had a concussion. And he had sprained his left wrist. Thank God he was right handed.

He saw Pedro getting up, with only a few cuts on himself. He saw the Texan, a prisoner named John Burton, getting up as well.

"Ugh. I think I might have a concussion." John said in Southern drawl, putting a hand to his head.

"Me too. Is anyone else okay?" Tobin asked, running a hand through his hair. Did this really just happen?

"I'm good, and Powell and Juarez." Pedro said. He gestered to the Honduran, who was picking himself up and putting pressure on a cut on his arm. "...for the latter, unfortunately."

"Shut the fuck up, Hernandez." Juarez snapped. Oh right. Pedro and George had never gotten along.

Powell sat up. "Did that actually just happen?"

"Looks like it did." John said.

"Well..." Tobin began, "...on one hand, we're free. On the other hand, we're a hundred miles from any town."

"Well, that's a problem." said Powell, adding grimly, "plus, we have no food or water."

"Hey, there's people at the top of the ravine! I hear voices!" said a blonde prisoner. He got up to move out.

"WAIT, DON'T-" Tobin started.

"Heeeeeyy!" The blonde shouted once outside. "We're..."

Bang.

The prisoner slumped to the ground,a bullet in his heart.

Bullets began to riddle the bus.

"This could be a problem too!" Powell shouted.

Tobin watched as a bullet punched through and struck the first skinhead, the one who first insulted Pedro, and who was just getting up, right between the eyes.

Who was firing? Cops? RCMP? Some kind of northern militia?

Many other prisoners were attemping to crawl out. All were immediately robbed of their lives. Bullets continued to riddle and punch through the bus. Taking cover behind seats, Tobin knew they had no choice but to surrender.

He crawled his way to a window just as the Mike Tyson-looking prisoner was shot in the head trying to climb out. He heard the people firing coming down the ravine towards them.

Careful not to expose himself, he yelled out a window as they stopped to reload:

"WE SURRENDER! WE SURRENDER! DON'T SHOOT!"

"WE'RE COMING DOWN THERE!" yelled a gruff voice. "TRY TO ESCAPE AND YOU WILL BE SHOT! WE KNOW YOU'RE ALL PRISONERS, AND YOU WILL ALL COME WITH US TO THE NEAREST JAIL!"

Tobin looked at the remaining prisoners. "No choice, boys."

Everyone wore a look of agreement.

John crawled to the front of the bus, where the top half of the unfortunate bus driver wore a Stenson "cowboy hat" on his head. The Texan took it off and put it on his own head.

"Looks good, eh?" He asked with a smile. Everyone rolled their eyes.

The group of police stopped outside the bus. Tobin saw that they wore white boots and pants.

"ALL OF YOU, GET OUT!" yelled the same gruff voice.

All the surviving prisoners climbed out. Tobin counted: There was himself, Powell, Pedro, George and John.

All of the 15 "police officers" wore entirely white uniforms. They all wore helmets that covered their whole head, except the source of the voice, standing in front of them. The was a man in probably his late 40's, with short-cut grey hair and creases in his face.

"I am Commander Romulus Thread." He said. "We are called the Peacekeepers. We operate in the town of Panem, about a ten minute walk from here. I understand you were all going to Grindstone Penetentiary in the next township?"

"Is it even LEGAL to fire at unarmed prisoners who have have noth-" Powell started, but was hit in the head by an officer with a baton and fell to the ground.

"As I was saying, were you going to Grindstone?" Thread resumed.

They all nodded as Powell picked himself back up, rubbing his head.

"Well, we'll send for another transport to pick you up. Until then you will be held in Panem County Prison. Good thing we were on patrol when you guys crashed. You could've been out here for days." He gave a condescending smile, then turned to his men. "Get ambulances out here for the bodies."

And with that, they marched back to Panem. It was indeed a short walk. The town was a small one, probably no more than 10,000 people, and it looked poor, probably the result of isolation. However, with a meadow and woods in the distance, it seemed quite peaceful.

But all the way to the jail, and as they were locked in a holding cell, Tobin couldn't shake the feeling that there was a dark secret about this place.

_This is kind of a prologue. Don't worry, the HG characters will come in next chapter._

_Also, I am very sorry if any of you were offended by the skinhead's racism. _


End file.
